The flat was quiet, rare for Baker Street, and its lone resident sighed. Sherlock had been gone for hours, off gallivanting with the Scotland Yard as they presumably chased after yet another murder.

The silence was infuriating to say the least.

For years he'd been alone, sure, but this was different. He'd tasted the sweet flavor of companionship- love even?-and now was being taunted for it.

Sherlock had told him that he was nothing but a hindrance, a bump in the road. It was far from the first time the lanky man had snapped at him, but this time had been the worse by far. He had the hand print across his hallowing cheeks to prove it.

Everything felt heavy, like all of Sherlock's emotional baggage had been dumped into his arms for him to trudge along with toward the unknown. He hadn't felt like this since his teen years, when homophobia was at its peak. Even back then John didn't think he had felt this bad.

The tears slowly dripped down John's face, clinging to his pale skin before dropping onto his fluffy jumper.

"Am I truly that worthless, Sherlock? Would you miss me if I left?"

John's voice was chocked, full to the brim with feelings of pain. He tried to blink the tears away but they just seemed to keep coming. His hands were shaking, even years of war couldn't make betrayal of the worst kind a softer blow.

"Would you miss me if I died?"

The question was stupid, almost automatic but it still made his throat tighten. No, he shouldn't say that. Death was something no one should mess with.

Standing up the army doctor limped to the stairs, ascending with hardly any grace. John was surprised that he hadn't fallen yet. Cold was John's first thought. His room was freezing, the open window the obvious cause. His shoulders shivered under the thin jumper but his feet didn't feel like treading across the cold floorboard to close it.

Instead he sat down on the perfectly made bed, years of abuse marring the sheets. Slumping, a thoughtless hand drifted to the top drawer of the dresser by his hip. A second thought drifted through his head before yanking it open and pulling out the desired object.

A razor blade, one made for shaving, glinted in the fading sunlight as it showed off its sharp edge.

The drawer slammed shut, and John laid back against the pillows. He pulled up his sleeve, the endless rows of scars visible, but just barely.

The tears didn't come as John felt the slick blade cut through, revealing blood. Normal, crimson blood.

It was perhaps one of the only things normal in his life.

Drifting off as the blood stemmed, John looked down and with Sherlock's words fresh in his head, made another line.

One after another, the lines blossomed with beautiful blood and stained the sheets. John didn't care if Sherlock found him this way- that would be unlikely, his mind supplied.

The ex soldier, beaten down and weary, just wanted to sleep.

Then, if he was lucky, never wake up.